


we are the crossroads (a story from floor 5)

by Khio



Series: welcome to the throne (stories from the 56th) [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Gen, haha suh, i'll add more characters and tags in the future but for now shh no spoilers, let's go losers, well its kinda impossible to spoil because we're writing a prequel but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24133513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khio/pseuds/Khio
Summary: "Here is the river, and here is the box, and here are the monsters we put in the box to test our strength against. Here is the cake, and here is the fork, and here's the desire to put it inside us, and then the question behind every question:What happens next?" — Richard Siken,Snow and Dirty Rain.It’s funny: for as long as he can remember, he’s always been Technoblade..Or, the story of the Capitol's golden boy.
Relationships: the only ship i support is friendship thanks :)
Series: welcome to the throne (stories from the 56th) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1817506
Comments: 114
Kudos: 348
Collections: victors' tower canon works





	1. you are not who you think you are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WreakingHavok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WreakingHavok/gifts), [Spaghettoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spaghettoi/gifts), [bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb/gifts).
  * Inspired by [where there's smoke (floor 5)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22561558) by Anonymous. 



> a guide to the collection: [A Reader's Guide to the Victors' Tower](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Pzhx1R51raoy7FdRsU2t7jz7zWJT7xSye1CdFJXrbKE/edit?usp=sharing)
> 
> notes on rpf and boundaries: the usual rules apply here. no irl people die. no graphic violence to or between them. if i overstep, please say something, you'll be doing me a favour and i'll fix it immediately. that being said, i know different people have different boundaries, and i know that techno hasn't expressed discomfort to anything other than his real name being used on the internet. i'll be keeping on the safe side right now, but i'm 100% willing to have a discussion/hear others' takes on what is acceptable and what isn't when writing about someone whose boundaries are very loose.
> 
> anyway have fun :D

In District One, ‘gilding silver’ has two meanings. The literal form means to cover a piece of silver jewellery with gold to make the jewellery look more luxurious while cutting down on cost. The figurative form means to paint something in a better light to soften the blow of a heavy subject or to gaslight someone into perceiving it as attractive. 

(Sugarcoating. It means sugarcoating. Much like most of District One, it’s posh, it’s fancy, and completely unnecessary. Why invent a new saying and not use the original word for its intended purpose?)

District One citizens are taught gemology and jewellery design in school from a young age. Gold has a higher density and hence is heavier than silver, it’s not rocket science, at least to District One it isn’t. Kids have to hold a necklace in one hand and correctly guess whether it’s made of real gold as part of elementary school. It’s tradition.

The Capitol doesn’t care; they’ll take anything so long as it shines, which is why it’s so prevalent in the market. But to people in the know, it’s disgustingly easy to tell the difference between solid gold and gilded silver.

.

It’s funny: for as long as he can remember, he’s always been Technoblade.

Okay, that was a lie. Of course, he remembers his birth name, and of course, there are people who don’t call him Techno —either because they don’t know what name he actually goes by, or they simply refuse to address him properly. For the most part, he doesn’t care, _he doesn’t_ , he can’t correct everyone, and it doesn’t matter.

But the fact is that: it’s the truth, at the same time. At six, he stepped into the training centre and the very first thing his trainer asked him was, “What’s your name?”

When he opened his mouth to answer, she stopped him mid-word.

“Not the name your parents gave you. _Who do you want to be_?”

He was six, when he picked up a sword, swung it for the first time, and became Technoblade. He remembers how much pride it brought him, because suddenly, _he was someone_! The Careers of District One had simple, bland names — lots of Johns and Jameses and Marys and Jens — and like him, they carved out their identity, their place in the world as soon as they chose a name.

(He was a _real_ Career now, he had an identity, and he was well on his way to win a Game.)

He’s thirteen now, and it’s still Technoblade. He’s been waiting seven years for his turn. And as his trainer always liked to say: he was born a Victor, raised to fight, made to win.

The Capitol’s escort took his sweet time running his fingers through the glass bowl that contained their names. District One held their collective breaths — parents wishing for the life of their children, teens hoping that someone would take their place if they were called, and Careers gearing up to volunteer the moment they could.

The escort plucked out a bent strip of paper, read the name printed on it, and dropped the paper on the floor. Two things happened at once.

First, the crowd of kids parted around a girl he didn’t know, and he caught a glimpse of the blood fading from her face. Her mouth fell agape in shock. Her parents were yelling from the sidelines. The rest of the adults sighed in relief.

Second, his friends burst into movement where they stood beside him. Deo and Squid were already in frantic motion, their arms reaching out to hold Wisp, whose mouth stretched open in a scream Techno couldn’t hear, because his own had been louder.

“ _I volunteer as tribute_!”

When he marched up the stage, head raised against the weight of District One’s scrutiny, the escort had asked for his name. He hadn’t hesitated when he said ‘Technoblade’.

He turned to the audience, and when they cheered for him, he’d smiled at them. These people, they believed in him, they knew he was a Career, they wanted him to win.

District One loved the Games. And by extension, so did Techno.

.

He’s thirteen, and he’s proud. 

(Well, prouder than he will be, years in the future. One day he’ll look back and he’ll realise the silver in the midst of the blacks and the whites was all he’d been living in.)

More anger, more bite, more naïvety, more ambition. More pressed on the idea that he was above these people, more confident in the assumption that he was better than them.

His trainer back home had hammered into his head the fact that he was her best student. He had the highest potential amongst the other Careers. He was stronger, he was smarter, he could fight better, _he was better than them, he **had** to be_. 

He couldn’t doubt- no, _there was no doubt_ that victory was his the moment he volunteered.

.

Seven years before his Reaping, Techno was six, watching eagerly from the sidelines as the Capitol escort thumbed through the glass bowl, unfolded a piece of paper, and declared the tribute of the 49th Hunger Games.

“ _Jordan Maron_!”

Jordan was a Career, but one that Techno remembered wasn’t the most confident one. They had enough faith in him that nobody stepped up to volunteer in his place, but he was thirteen and he was inexperienced and District One held their breaths when he walked up the stage stiffly, face pale and looking his death straight in the eye.

Jordan, now named CaptainSparklez, had appeared in TV, face caked in glittery makeup and red-framed shades perched proudly atop his nose. He had been nothing like the boy who shuffled his feet on the stage in District One. 

Techno had watched every second of his Game season, and a flame had ignited within him the moment the last cannon fired and the speakers declared Jordan the winner of his Game. That same day, he started his journey as a Career.

But as they always say, never meet your heroes. Never place a person atop a pedestal so grand and so unreachable, that all you see when you look up is the impossible shadow they cast. And if you do, never, _never_ meet them face-to-face. They will never amount to your expectations, they will never be the perfect figurehead you revere. Because as it is, Jordan Maron does not live up to Captain-fucking-Sparklez.

Jordan Maron leaned against the doorway of the train car, wearing a grey hoodie, a pair of sweatpants, and a hat, looking very much like the ordinary boy Techno never expected him to be. All tired eyes, a weary smile, and hidden hands. At least he had his signature shades folded over his collar. Techno almost didn’t recognise him when he showed up and if he were to be fairly honest, if Jordan hadn’t spoken at all, Techno wouldn’t have given him a second glance.

“Hello,” Jordan said, his voice soft and his wave softer. “You must be D-.”

“It’s Technoblade,” he interrupted. “Just call me Techno.” Only the people back home called him by his birth name and even then, he only really exempted his family and his closest friends.

Jordan raises his eyebrows and brought his hands up in a placating gesture. “Right, sorry,” he said, “my bad. They gave you a name already?” 

“I chose it myself,” Techno said flatly. He didn’t know what to expect from his mentor, but with what he’s seen so far, he wasn’t too enthusiastic about it. Wasn’t Jordan a Career? Shouldn’t he _know_ how important their names are to them?

Jordan gave him a once-over, assessing him for a few seconds before pushing himself off the doorway. He strode over to Techno in five calculated steps and sat across the table piled with uneaten food.

“How old are you, Technoblade?” he asked. The name didn’t fit right coming out of Jordan’s mouth. It didn’t feel like the proud connotations Techno has learnt to associate it with.

“Thirteen,” Techno answered.

“I’m guessing you watched my Game?”

“Yes.”

“My pre-Game ceremonies?”

“Yes.”

“Post-Game?”

“Everything,” Techno said. What the hell was Jordan trying to do?

His fingers found a hollow part of the table and began tapping an uneven rhythm. “You’ve seen it all, then?” he stated more than asked. “Your trainer made you study every Game since you started training?”

“Yours didn’t?” Techno asked. 

He couldn’t count the amount of hours he spent obsessing over past Victors, analysing their time in the Capitol’s stage and more importantly, analysing how they won their Game. He was raised to soak everything up. It was crucial to their culture, his trainer had told him, he had to know every little detail of a tribute’s — and a Victor’s — life.

Jordan crossed his arms on the table and leaned his weight on it. “No, mine did. Why wouldn’t I? I mean, after Adam won, I was ecstatic, I wanted to volunteer and win — a lot of kids did.” He huffed out a bitter, half-hearted laugh. “Are you their first choice?”

Techno nodded.

“Yeah, thought so,” Jordan said. “I wasn’t, did you know that? I was thirteen, like you. There were — oh, I don’t know — five other kids who they thought were better than me.”

_And not a single one of them volunteered_ , was left unsaid and hanging in the air. What Techno thought was apparent fatigue in his expression might just be a sense of resentment so old and etched so deeply that he didn’t know it was there. Was this who his mentor was? 

There must’ve been a change in his demeanour, because Jordan looked at him and narrowed his eyes. “What? Didn’t expect a pity story your first day on board?” He leaned forward, and suddenly Techno didn’t like where this was going. “I didn’t meet your expectations,” he noted, “you can say it, I won’t mind.”

“I thought you’d be more enthusiastic,” Techno mumbled.

“Speak up, kid, no one can hear you.”

“I thought you’d be a better mentor,” Techno said, louder, braver. He clenched his fists on his lap. First impressions are a test for many and Jordan’s just failed his miserably.

“Alright,” Jordan said, and unfolded his shades. He put them on, smiled his dazzling, million-dollar smile, and Techno _really_ didn’t like where this was going. “Hey Technoblade, welcome to the 56th annual Hunger Games! I’m CaptainSparklez, your mentor, but you knew that already, right?” Jordan tilted his head back and smiled the wrong side of cocky. “What’s wrong, kid? You’re gonna have to get used to it, things aren’t all sunshine and rainbows here.”

From the short distance that separated them, Techno could make out the strain in his cheeks, the slight tremble of his lips, and the tension he held in his neck. Jordan’s fingertips were shaking.

Jordan looked him up and down and laughed. There’s gold lacing his words, and Techno can see in his mind’s eye the tacky yellow peeling off after years of misuse.“Why the long face? Chin up. Back straight. Smile. Millions are watching.”

“Stop that,” Techno wheezed out in a breath he’d been holding in. He glared at Jordan, at CaptainSparklez, at the rubies studded in the frame of his shades that Techno could tell were man-made even at first glance. “You’re my mentor; you’re supposed to be teaching me something valuable.”

Jordan paused, licked his lips, and dropped character completely as he took off his shades and dropped it onto the table with a resonant clatter. “Fine.” He shrugged, and leaned back on his chair, letting Techno some room to breathe. “Lesson one: you listen to me. I’ve been here seven years, mentored six kids, all Careers. They were just like you.” He grimaced. “What’s the phrase, you Careers were…?“

“Born a Victor, raised to fight, made to win,” Techno finished. That phrase came to him almost as naturally as breathing and swinging a sword.

Jordan nodded and smiled, but there was nothing behind the macabre twist of his lips. “That’s right. Look where all those Careers are now.” He laughed. A pity bark. “That’s what they all said, God. The whole shebang, the stuff they feed you to keep the kids rolling in. We weren’t made to win, we were made to look pretty and sound pretty and maybe, _just maybe_ , if by chance we lived, they’d parade us around some more and brag about the Career system.”

“We were raised to die, do you realise that? We were raised pigs for slaughter.”

.

(Pigs for slaughter. How fitting.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello it's ya local trash goblin here. first work, let's go nerds. special thanks to the floor 6 writer gang. ily all fams.
> 
> this took a while to start, but here we are now. updates won't be frequent, sorry, i'm not a fast writer, but i'll pump them out as fast as i can.
> 
> i'm trying my best to make sure everything adheres to canon, so to y'all who see any mistakes, please please please let me know! and other mistakes, too! this story isn't beta-read, so i might miss some grammar/spelling mistakes or plot holes/ooc moments. i'm open for constructive criticism. fire away, boys.
> 
> let me know what you think! kudos & comments are fuel for my caveman writer brain. and also go read the other works from the collection if you haven't :P


	2. i heard the words that you never said

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2! hi again everyone and enjoy some more Content :P
> 
> this chapter was beta'ed by [lolitwontgivemeausernameiamsad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolitwontgivemeausernameiamsad)
> 
> have fun !

The stylist that greeted him the moment he set foot in the Training Centre was an enigmatic person. He was blond, in his early to mid twenties and sounded like he wanted to say something more, like the words were always lost at the tip of his tongue. One look at his forced passivity, and Techno could tell that his face was made for joy, his accented voice made for laughter, and the constant effort to reel it all in made him look absolutely miserable.

He didn’t offer a name as he stood at attention and read off the golden cue cards. He didn’t look at the Peacekeepers and never maintained eye contact with Techno for more than three seconds. He didn’t spew niceties and gilded silver and he didn’t try to make small talk; it was all business for him. And most importantly, he never, _never_ smiled.

Not when he welcomed Techno into the building. Not when he escorted Techno into District One’s tribute quarters and laid down the rules. Not when he stood by the doorway and said goodbye. It was all straight faces and distant eyes and the feeling of broken sentiments. 

In a way, Techno understood. He was disappointed, of course — it seemed like disappointment was going to be a recurring theme in the Capitol — he thought he’d get a…happier stylist, maybe. That was the norm, wasn’t it? They had to be supportive, kind, and understanding towards their tributes.

(How old was his stylist? When did he start? _How many kids did he have to dress up to die?_ )

Well, as long as his stylist could get him the attention and sponsors he needed, Techno didn’t much care about how he acted. As long as he didn’t treat him how they treated District Twelve tributes.

The next day came with his stylist as his wake-up call. Tired as he is, he could barely put one foot in front of the other, let alone think on the spot when his stylist asked about early branding. When Techno failed to answer, his stylist painted his hair a flaming pink and wrapped a flowing cape around his shoulders, all the while muttering about attention and tradition.

It’s only when Techno’s shoved up onto a chariot that he truly woke up and realised that he was easily the most eye-catching tribute. If the pink hair, makeup, and cape wasn’t enough, then the red chariot must have granted him the side-eye glances from the other tributes. Or maybe it’s the excessive amounts of bling sewn into his clothes and embedded into the chariot. All fake, or to say it in a kinder way: man-made. 

(One day he’ll ask his stylist why the jewels that the Capitol used are all fake, and his stylist will laugh and say, “What did you expect?”)

As a final touch, his stylist placed an oversized crown on his head. The jewels studded on it were also fake, of course. 

“District One tributes dress as authority as part of tradition; the audience never gets tired of feeling…controlled inferiority,” his stylist said in almost a whisper, words only intended for Techno’s ears. He could get his tongue severed for the former statement alone. Then, louder, he nodded at Techno and declared, “Chin up. Back straight. Smile. Millions are watching.”

Techno only had seconds to process the words and follow them before the doors opened, light and noises filled his senses, and his chariot started moving.

.

Jordan was…an adequate mentor. He proved his usefulness in the quiet moments following the training sessions, when he sat Techno down — nevermind the fact that he was still vibrating with energy — and taught him what to do and what not to do.

Follow what they say. Don’t even _think_ about rebellion, they’ll find ways to break that spirit. Draw attention to yourself, boost your popularity, earn the sponsors’ support. Don’t make enemies , at least not until the gong chimes and the Game starts. 

All eyes are on you the moment you step foot on the stage, do whatever it takes, give them what they want. Smile and joke with the interviewer to earn relatability points or play it cool and act aloof to make them praise you. Ramp it up for the camera, this week is your one chance to gain their support. It might make the difference between life and death.

“And don’t,” Jordan said, “don’t ever lose yourself.” He didn’t meet Techno’s eyes when he said this.

(It’s only years later that Techno understands. It’s only years later than he’ll agree.)

( _”And don’t — and this is important, try not to make the same mistakes I did — don’t lose yourself,” Techno will say, years later. He’ll look his tribute in the eye and make sure he does everything in his power to make them understand what he didn’t._ )

Jordan wasn’t being genuine, though. It’s painfully obvious, when he didn’t smile and didn’t say his niceties and didn’t spend a second longer around Techno than necessary. He regarded him with careful looks, almost disgusted at Techno’s enthusiasm, and though he was useful, he wasn’t a friend.

That’s fine. He won’t make enemies but he didn’t need friends, either.

.

“Rumours are spreading. They’ve heard of you.” His stylist brushed off a stray hair off Techno’s face absentmindedly. “There’s chatter, people are talking about the Career from District One.”

“What’re they saying?” Techno mumbled, his eyes closed to offer the least resistance to his stylist.

His stylist started messing with his hair. “Only good things. Your folks back home must really…believe in your chances at winning.”

That would be his trainer, then. She’s a respected, well-known figure in the Career community and if she’s spreading word of mouth about him, then the Capitol must’ve caught it and put it on blast. Rumours, right, as if there weren’t articles being written about him at that moment. As if videos predicting the outcome of his Game weren’t trending all over the front pages of Youtube. As if the streamers — the past Victors weren’t talking about it. Him.

A vain thought, sure, but these were just thoughts. If they knew what was good for their viewership, they’ll talk about Technoblade.

“Open your eyes,” his stylist said, and Techno did. 

Alright, he could work with this. Authority, sure, he could see ‘authority’ in District One’s previous tributes. But they’ve caught wind of his potential and they’ve made him a prince, or a king, or an ambiguously imperial figure who could tilt his head the right way and narrow his eyes just the slightest bit and intimidate even himself.

His stylist hummed in satisfaction. “You know what to do?”

“Yeah,” Techno said as he nodded, transfixed by his reflection. Then, almost as an afterthought, “You sound like District Four.”

“Right, sure,” his stylist replied, but he’s already pulling Techno away from the mirror. “Here, lift the cape- yeah, try not to trip there. Go on, you’re up first.”

Techno stood by the curtains behind the stage, hands fisted by his sides, head bowed and eyes on the floor, steeling himself. There’s a spotlight shining on the other side, the interviewer yelling hype into the audience, obnoxious music blasting through the speakers, and muffled chatter from the soundproof waiting room. 

“Ready?” his stylist muttered, eyes stubbornly trained on Techno’s ears and not his eyes. His hands were shoved deep in the pockets of his baggy clothes. Peacekeepers watched them from the sides. “Give them hell. Chin up. Back straight. Smile-“

“Millions are watching,” Techno finished. 

The interviewer ended his monologue. 

The audience broke into apprehensive applause.

The curtains moved.

Techno braved one glance back, and while his face was lit up in harsh lights, he saw in the gentle dark of the backstage area, his stylist nodding approvingly and holding in a smile. No niceties. No gilded silver. All muted pride and foreign hopefulness. 

All eyes were on him. The audience. The interviewer. The cameras and by extension, all of Panem. His stylist, and Jordan wherever he may be. The other tributes, looking to pick out any weakness he lets slip.

He’ll show them, he’ll make them realise who- or rather, _what_ he is. 

Better than them.

.

“Say, Mr Blade,” Austin said, diffusing his last dregs of laughter at their last exchange. “You got anyone rooting for you back home?”

“‘Course, I expect nothin less.” Techno shrugged. “The whole District should be watchin me, otherwise, I can’t accept the fact that they won’t see everythin I do.” He twitched the corner of his lips into a flashed smirk and congratulated himself for the wave of laughter from the audience. 

And Austin, _the infamous AustinShow_ , raised an eyebrow at him. He knew something Techno didn’t, tried to tell him something without uttering a single word. Right, _audience retention, sympathy and all that; he had to give them at least a little mention of his personal life to keep them invested._

Austin was terrifyingly good at this, and of course he would be. Victor of the 25th, became interviewer in the 30th, one of the only — if not the only one — Victors of Floors 1 to 3 who still retained some level of relevancy, who still had people caring about their existence, who hadn’t been forgotten entirely. Victors of Floor 4 were already fading into relative obscurity, and Austin…he was desperate to be remembered by the world. They could all tell he was grasping at straws, what with the numerous ongoing shows he hosted on Twitch alongside interview duty. 

It’s almost sad. He’s growing older, getting less and less in touch with his audience, and they’re probably going to shelf him in the next few years.

“Anyone in particular you want to shout out?” Austin asked, leaning forward in his velvet seat. He looked invested in what Techno had to say. Key word: looked.

Techno feigned mock thinking for a few seconds before settling on a definite answer. “Sure. My family, of course: my parents, my three sisters, and my dog Floof. And ‘course, my friends Deo, Wisp, and Squid. They’ve been supportin me since day one.” That was a lie, or rather, a half-truth. 

“And you’ll be winning for them?”

“…Maybe,” Techno said. 

He’d gone a bit too far, it was time to reel it back in, hide under his meticulously-crafted guise of arrogance. He needed something he was familiar with, they’re watching him and they’re seeing his vulnerabilities, ready to strike him where it hurts. He can’t- _won’t_ let that happen. 

“I’ll be winnin more for myself.” He shot the audience a smile. The realest one he could muster. His fingers were shaking where he pressed them against his chair. “And the Capitol, of course.”

.

“-and once the countdown ends and the gong chimes, the mines will deactivate and you’re free to step off the plate. May the odds be ever in your favour, Technoblade.”

With a grimace, his stylist shoved the golden cue cards deep in his pockets and crossed his arms. The Capitol loved their cue cards a lot, didn’t they.

“I never caught your name,” Techno muttered, searching his stylist’s face for any sign of hidden happiness, excitement, enthusiasm, anything. 

His stylist shook his head. “No, that’s right,” he said, and stepped away. “First rule of attachment. Sorry. Good luck.” 

Then he was gone, striding out the room with panic in his hard footsteps. No more words, no true goodbyes, no love lost because no love was gained in the first place. Maybe that’s how things are run here, maybe that’s how his stylist lasted so long.

The door creaked open, and who else would see him off if not his mentor? Jordan stepped through, eyes immediately meeting Techno’s. 

“Why the long face?” he asked, closing the door behind him slowly. “Chin up-“

Techno doesn’t let him finish his sentence. It’s getting ridiculous, at this point. “Why do you people keep on saying that? Yeah, I get it, good posture, good impressions, they’ll support you.” 

“It’s not the posture — it’s the mindset,” Jordan said. “It’s…the mantra, just something catchy we like to repeat, right? You’ve got your Career motto, we’ve got our tribute mantra. People love repetition, man, but we don’t parade this one. It’s not a catchphrase- we don’t sell tees with it — that’ll be absolutely horrible — it’s just shared between us.”

He’s making gestures. Desperate to explain himself, looking more and more like a frustrated lunatic as he uttered each word. It’s just a phrase, why was Jordan so worked up over it?

(It’s just a phrase, but words are powerful like that.)

“I mean, Phil- he’s been repeating it since day one and it’s never failed him. It’s never failed Adam, it’s never failed me, either, and it’s been years since-“ He cut himself off. “It’s just something to keep me- us afloat,” he finished lamely, his shoulders drooping. “You’ll understand one day.”

“Right.” Techno nodded. Change the subject. “What’re you doing here? Sending me off to my death?”

Jordan looked at him blankly for a few seconds, before his eyes lit up and he remembered why he even bothered to send off a tribute he openly disliked. “No, actually, quite the opposite. Here. “

He placed a small round object on Techno’s hand. It’s a small, silver pin with gemstones he didn’t recognise embedded in them in the shape of the Career’s insignia — a closed eye, symbolising their blind faith to the Capitol. He held it up to the light and squinted, mildly surprised that it was authentic District One jewellery. ‘D1’ was engraved on its back, something wholly missing from jewellery made for the Capitol. The signature of their district was an imperfection in the Capitol’s eyes but this…

“A piece of home, if you will,” Jordan spoke up after many minutes of complete silence.

Techno looked up at him. “What?”

“I’m sure you can tell, the gems they use to dress you up are all fake. ‘ _Man-made in our most advanced labs_ ’ in gilded terms.” He scoffed. “They like to cut corners when it comes to us. So, I know what you’re thinking: you’ve never seen this gemstone used before.”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, it’s one of a kind, actually,” Jordan said with the kind of enthusiastic vigour only luxury salesmen possess. “You can tell — this one has real diamonds in it.”

Abruptly, the pin in his hands was made of the thinnest, frailest glass that even the tiniest twitch of his muscles could shatter. 

“Real diamonds?” Techno asked, voice weak. Jordan had to be lying, he _had_ to be. He’s used to seeing the Capitol flaunt their wealth with faux ones, but the real deal — he’d heard about there extinction, learnt its history at school and there was absolutely _no way_ he was holding one in his hands. “But-“

“It’s worth trillions in the market because seventy years ago, yadda yadda yadda, yeah, you’re holding a discontinued piece.” He waved a hand dismissively, as if the subject matter didn’t baffle him anymore, as if District One wouldn’t froth at the mouth if they knew what Techno was holding. “But even then, this is still one of a kind, it’s made specifically for Jack Douglas.”

“Jack…?”

Jordan rolled his eyes. No heat behind them, but no kindness, either. “You might know him as Jacksfilms, Victor-“

“Victor of the sixth, yeah, I know.” 

Of course he knew who Jack Douglas was, he was the second Victor from District One, the first being PewDiePie. Techno wasn’t even born back then, obviously, but Jack’s name hung over the Careers’ lives like a ghost. His name was in the history books. He was the reason why alliances were so common in the Games, as he was the first to ever consider the possibility. He _earned_ his title as Victor.

“How’d you get your hands on this?” Techno asked, cocking his head as he turned the pin over carefully. 

“Well, he passed it down to his mentee. And then his mentee passed it down to the next, and so on.” Numbers rattled around in Techno’s head: six, twenty-eight, forty-nine. “Adam — SkyDoesEverything, if you didn’t- anyway, he passed it down to me.” He almost smiled. Almost, but the sentiments bleed through anyway. “And now…now I’m giving it to you. Put it on, it’s yours.”

Techno obeyed, securing it onto his shirt. A light, yet impossibly heavy weight proudly displayed on his chest. “That sounds tiring,” he said. “I mean, every year you hand it down, and then you’ve got to pick it out of their dead bodies, right?”

“Yeah.” Jordan nodded. “You’re right. It would be horrible to search the Arenas and the bodies for the pin. That’s why we don’t pass it down to every tribute.” 

He stepped back and gave Techno a once-over, eyes resting on the pin for a little longer. 

“We only give it to the winners. Goodbye, Da-“ He stopped. Shook his head. Turned around and walked away without another word.

.

Six. Twenty-eight. Forty-nine. 

And now, fifty-six.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> saph has a discord server running for this au! everyone's welcome to join but writers especially, so we don't have to discuss the stories in each others' comments and potentially spoil the story for the readers :) 
> 
> link: https://discord.gg/FgnWpw 
> 
> I'm posting this as I'm watching MCC from Techno's perspective I am absolutely shaking right now SOMEONE COME YELL ABOUT IT WITH ME
> 
> let me know what y'all think! :) comments and kudos give me life.


	3. but it's who i am, or am i just losing it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a warning: there's very mild implied violence and offscreen death. please please please be careful when reading. I've ran the Bad Parts through several writers and readers and tried to minimise the implications but. please. careful.
> 
> beta'ed by [lolitwontgivemeanameiamsad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolitwontgivemeausernameiamsad)

The Game was over before it even started.

.

The first day was the worst. It always was, but here, now, _with him_ , no one really stood a chance.

He rose up on the disc with his heart thundering in his chest, blinking against the harsh sunlight to an arena he knew he could navigate easily. A wide taiga expanse with trees shrouding the bare land around the Cornucopia. An array of mountains fogged at their peaks miles ahead of him and the distant rushing sound of a white-water river behind him. He’s trained both in combat and in survivability, he knew how to improvise, adapt, and overcome any dangers that nature posed.

Around him, the 11 other tributes eyed each other. Some had eyes trained on the weapons on the Cornucopia (2 — a dagger and a bow, 3 — a backpack, 4 — a trident, 6 — the same sword Techno’s eyeing), some looked for the fastest, safest routes to run (7 — the mountains, 8 — the river, 9 and 12 — the eastern woods, 11 — the western woods), and others were panicking (5 and 10 — both melting down where they stood). 

It’s a shame that they never learnt how to compartmentalise their emotions. Their panic, their fear, their _weakness_ broadcasted to millions and bare for their enemies to tear into. Then again, they never learned, and it was their loss.

The countdown did little to sate his giddy anticipation. AustinShow’s voice counted down over the arena’s speakers. 5 vibrating through the disc, 4 trembling up his legs and into his bones, 3 clenching his fists and his jaw, 2 echoing through his mind past all the training engraved into his brain, and 1, a shift in the fabric where his pin met his clothes and his chest, the heavy weight that he was now burdened to carry-

The gong sounded. The mines disarmed. The tributes moved. Miles away, from the Capitol to the very ends of Panem and back home, millions cheered the start of the 56th Hunger Games. But here, now, Techno started moving.

He wasn’t the first to reach the centre, but he was the first to start swinging.

.

The second day was better, but Techno couldn’t stop moving.

Every little noise — every chirp of a bug, every crunch of the leaves scattered on the ground, every hum of the wind against his ears — put him more on edge than he ever thought he’d be. Time passed like a haze most of the time, a blur of images streaking through his stream of consciousness, sounds and smells and feelings hazing together into one paranoid nightmare.

Occasionally he’ll hear cannons fire and the haze would thin out the tiniest bit, just enough for him to break through and put his feral thoughts into order. 

Occasionally he would resurface and find himself panting against a tree, eyes wide and staring far off into the sky, begging for salvation from some unseen god. He won’t question the grazes on his legs or the tears on his clothes. He would wash himself in the river and try to ignore the red drifting down the river, the dried brown on his sword, and the shakiness of his hands.

He raised his head up and faced the hidden cameras. Took a deep breath, wiped all the emotion off his face, _no weaknesses_ , steeled himself and smiled against the weight on his cheeks.

He’s Techno-fucking-blade, he’ll win this, he’ll prove to them that he was better than them. He is, he _is_ , _he is_ , _**he is**_.

.

It’s day three, he won, and he was shaking.

The last cannon went off, and with it, a thud on the ground behind him. The mutts, the boars that the Gamemakers had sicced after him, growled at him one final time before retreating to God-knows-where. 

(Ironic, isn’t it?)

The last of the boars disappeared but their image persisted in his mind, etched almost as deeply as his own name. The angry red of their eyes. The human screams emanating from their throats. The flaming pink of their fur, as bright as his own hair. 

(He made himself the very things that send him screaming in the dead of night.)

He dropped to his knees, and leaned against his sword. It didn’t matter anymore.

(“You did this to yourself,” they’ll say. “You held your own weapons, you dug your own hole, you _chose_ the life you live.”)

(One day he’ll be inclined to agree.)

He heard the distant hum of the Capitol hovercrafts coming to lift him to safety. He heard the rushing of the river behind him and the boars’ distant, haunted shrieks somewhere in the depths of the woods. He heard Austin through the arena’s speakers bellowing his name-

_Congratulations, Technoblade — Victor of the 56th Hunger Games!_

-but above all, he heard his own laughter. There were tear tracks down his face — _how long had they been there?_ —and his chest burned with every choked breath he wheezed out. His ribs must’ve broken sometime during the fight and could pierce his lungs with any wrong move, but he couldn’t care less; he was laughing and it was all that mattered at the moment, damn it.

Here he was, for all the world to see:

Technoblade, a Career of seven years, born a Victor, raised to fight, made to win. Thirteen, covered in blood, grime, and sweat, clutching a sword like it was his only lifeline, laughing alone in an arena full of memories of terrified children and maniacal hunts. 

Technoblade, too far gone in his own head, that he didn’t even register being picked up by the hovercraft. Still laughing and coughing out blood as he’s lifted up into the sky, thinking for a few vicious moments that maybe he was dead and maybe it was the better alternative. 

Technoblade, still lashing out at the people who tried to tend to his gushing wounds. Still fighting, still pulled taut like a string, still shaking and crying and laughing as a needle sunk into his neck and knocked him out at last.

Technoblade, at the end of the road he’s been building for seven years. Grasping blindly to find the answer to the question behind every question: what happens next?

What comes after, now that the pig raised for slaughter has come out on top?

.

(Someone will, someday, ask him: “What comes after?”

And oh, isn’t that just a funny question to ask. He’ll think of all the moments spent screaming into the void, begging for a path forward. He’ll think of the arena and the boars and the cannon and the thud of the last tribute. He’ll think, 56, isn’t that a funny number, isn’t that the one thing, the _only thing_ , he cannot let go.

He’ll think: there’s no real answer to this question. What a funny question to ask, isn’t it?

He’ll say: “I don’t know.” There are some things even he hasn’t figured out yet.)

.

What comes next is the present. 

The only one he lives, the only one he knows. 

The only one he never saw coming.

.

The next time Techno opens his eyes, he’s laying down on a bed, suffocating on disinfected air that he isn’t sure is breathable in the first place. Turning his head, he finds a machine, humming and blinking his vital signs back at him. A calming presence, a grounding chain that keeps him on the ground. He would’ve given _anything_ to have that repetitive beeping accompany him through the savage silence of the arena. 

That’s his pulse: slow, his careful movements in the face of a mutant boar. That’s his blood pressure: low, the river water washing the red from his hands. That’s his body temperature: cold, the nights spent sleeplessly tracking his opponents down. That’s his breathing rate: erratic, the laughter he cannot shake off of himself.

And yet, _and yet_ , despite everything, he’s still alive.

The scrape of a metal chair against the ceramic floor sends him reaching out for a weapon, forces his adrenaline online, turns the beeping into a fast, dangerous rhythm. 

“Hey,” and then that voice freezes him on the spot. “Calm down.”

Techno grasps the sheets of his bed in white hands, squeezes his eyes shut, tries to calm himself down through sheer force of will. “What the hell?” he grits out. “Why are you- what’re you doing here?”

“Officially?” Jordan asks. “To help you figure out what to do next.”

“Unofficially?”

“Unofficially, I asked to watch over you so the next doctor to come in wouldn’t be killed.”

Techno winces. It’s all starting to come back to him, and he doesn’t like any of it one bit.

“Right. Low blow,” Jordan says, but doesn’t apologise. 

He sits crosslegged with a book propped open between his legs. Hair tousled, red shades tucked into the collar of his grey tee, and mild bags beneath his eyes, he looks more like a guy who pulled off an all-nighter and less like either CaptainSparklez or the man that shattered the golden past. He’s just a guy, all things considered.

That fact shouldn’t be as surprising as it is.

Jordan looks at him with a crease between his eyebrows. A grimace. Techno can’t tell if he’s worried or disgusted. He doesn’t know which is preferable. 

“So,” Jordan says. He folds the corner of the page he’s on and closes the book, setting it on Techno’s bedside table. Techno glances at it; Samuel R. Delaney’s Dhalgren. “I’ve got some…news. Whether it’s good or bad news is completely up to you-”

“You’re reading Samuel Delaney?” Techno asks.

Jordan looks at his book. “Yeah- but that’s not the point-“

“I didn’t peg you as the type to read sci-fi.”

“No, Techno, I-“ Jordan pauses. He rolls his eyes. “You’re right: I’m not. Phil recommended it to me for its mythology parallelism, but…look, we can discuss books all you want later. Now, we’ve got more pressing issues to discuss.”

Techno briefly considers continuing, but there are some things you cannot avoid no matter how hard you try. This — among other things — will haunt him until he’s sated by the answer. 

“Fine.”

“Thank you,” Jordan says. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a folded golden cue card. “We’re in a private room, so…right, anyways. They’re reviewing the footage of your Game and…well, I don’t want to say they’re impressed but- yeah, they’re impressed by the success of your Game.”

Techno nods. “They’ve got the numbers already?”

“Yeah. Easily gathered the most views and highest ratings on Youtube and Twitch.” Jordan squints at his card. “The VOD alone got fifty million in five days, they’re pumping out highlight reels and fan compilations as we speak, and not to mention the pre-game videos…”

Fifty million in five days. That number’s going to double, hell maybe even _triple_ in the next few weeks. That’s…Techno doesn’t know what to think of it. Jordan had twenty eight in a week — a little larger than the average since he’s the first District One Victor in twenty-one years — and Pyro had about forty for being in the 50th.

“How is that potentially ‘bad news’?” Techno asks.

Ignoring him, Jordan continues. “And because your…Game score was so high-“

“My score?” Techno interrupts. 

A muscle in Jordan’s cheek twitches. 

“Yes,” Jordan gilds, “your _score_.”

“How high is it? I mean- how many did I get?”

Jordan takes a very deep breath and closes his eyes. The crease between his eyebrows deepens and he buries his face in his hands for a few seconds, breathing through the spaces between his fingers. Without saying anything, he passes the cue card to Techno and- oh. 

Oh.

District Twelve…

Right. He remembers now.

“Do they know? Twelve. _Do they know?_ ” Techno asks, quietly. “That I was…that I- that I tried to…” He stops. Swallows the salted block in his throat, closes his eyes around the sting. Rearranges himself despite all the pieces coming off like a leaf of cracked gold. “Jordan. Do they know?”

Jordan takes the wrinkled cue card gently from Techno’s hands, which are clenched despite his best attempts to relax. “District Twelve doesn’t have access to the highlights,” he says, carefully. “Just what they show on TV.”

“And did they show it?”

“For a brief moment, yeah.” Jordan nods. “But they switched away immediately. Is that what you wanted?”

“I don’t know,” Techno answered honestly. It’s fine. He’s fine. It shouldn’t affect him as much as it does and it _doesn’t_. “It’s whatever. It’s a shame, anyways, I should’ve been better, I could’ve gotten-“

“No,” Jordan snaps. “Stop _right_ there.” He stands up abruptly, sending his chair screeching backwards. “You can’t pretend to take this lightly. I _saw_ you- I’ve seen it with my own two eyes. D- Techno, jesus, look- you’re thirteen. You, you took s- do you…don’t you realise what you just did?”

“I got the highest score in Hunger Games history — that’s what I did!” Techno says, rushing to defend himself. There are chips in his walls, holes in the fence that Jordan’s trying to break, and once the armor breaks he’s scared to look inside — there might not be anyone underneath all that bulk. “I was trained my whole life for this. I was _six_ when I started; _you_ were the reason why!” 

There are people outside. People that might peek through the safety of their privacy and see him at his weakest point.

Techno starts again, using a lower voice this time. “You’re not even happy about it. These are _my_ accomplishments-“

“Oh give me a goddamn break, there’s not a thing to be proud of-“

“-I don’t see why you’re so pressed about it-“

“-the fact that you don’t even realise what you did was _wrong_ -“

“-because it’s not! I was raised to- you were, too; it’s tradition-“

“-it’s people’s _lives!_ ” Jordan yells, slamming his palms flat against the bed. Techno’s hands fly up to cover his face. The machine beeps dangerously fast. There are no weapons here. There are no weapons at all, but somehow, _somehow_ he’s always looking for one.

The look that Jordan sends him borders between horror, guilt, and satisfaction. Nice to know that somewhere inside _Jordan Maron_ , the deep-seated sadism of the Career ego is still alive. Nice to know that it’ll never die. 

“I did it because I was made to do it,” Techno mutters, forcing his hands down. “I sacrificed seven years of my childhood to win. I have _friends_ back home and I’m leaving them just for this.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Jordan replies, equally low. He yanks his shades from his collar and tosses it onto the bedside table, where it misses and clatters onto the floor. “You shouldn’t have been a Career. The Career system shouldn’t exist. Hell-“ he chuckles mirthlessly, “the Games shouldn’t even be a thing in the first place.”

“You really shouldn’t be saying that,” Techno says. Lessons to be learnt from Floor 0. The reason why so few people even remember its existence. 

( ~~Head down. Shoulders up. Quiet. People are watching.~~ )

“You’re right; I shouldn’t,” Jordan says. “Right now, we’re in a private room. But outside…well, us Victors…we’re allowed _some_ moments, so long as it stays between us.”

He pulls his chair forward and drops into it, his body his own weary, dead weight. The anger drains out of his face and is instead replaced by downcast exhaustion. Again, neither Jordan Maron nor CaptainSparklez. Just this man, this _boy_ who comes and falls face-to-face with someone who thrives in the life and limelight he so evidently despises.

“It doesn’t matter, y’know what: I can’t make you…realise it. I can’t make you understand until you see it- until you _live_ it for yourself. We’ll just be racing in circles again.” Jordan rubs the space between his eyebrows and slowly, the crease smoothens itself out. “I’m your mentor, right? I’m here to help you figure things out, but I can’t…really…point them out for you.

“District One, we love our traditions, we love our elders and we…we never forget right?” He laughs bitterly. “Us Victors, we don’t. Me and Adam — Adam and Jack — Jack and Felix, we don’t forget; we help each other, that’s the tradition, here. If there’s one thing you can’t abandon, it’s this. Now I’m here to help you, too, and you just gotta let me.”

Some things are better left unsaid. This…Techno has no idea how to respond or even what to think of it, let alone whether he wanted to hear it in the first place.

“Just tell me the news, Jordan.”

Jordan sighs.

“Right. The Gamemakers were impressed by the success of your Game, and have declared your enthusiasm and performance — i.e., your… _Game score_ — admirable and unparalleled to any past Game. Alongside your future mentoring duties, they’ve decided to appoint you as head trainer. You have until the 57th to learn how to teach, and then the title will be yours. They’ll brief you on the details sometime after the Welcome.”

This isn’t anyone whose demeanour Techno has come to associate with Jordan’s face. This isn’t a tired boy, a broken man, or a revered personality. This is all of them, in some twisted amalgamation of all the faces of one person and maybe, just maybe, it’s not the identity but the concept that scares him the most.

“Congrats, Technoblade, you’ve become the Capitol’s golden boy. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I don’t know,” Techno says, and it’s the truth.

.

His Game was over before it even started, but it’ll never really stop, will it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u stories from floories gang, ily all <3<3<3\. except havok, the mad dictator smh. 
> 
> thank u ray for the book namedrop <3
> 
> kudos, comments, let me know what you think !


	4. cassini don't come home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all, i replaced 3 named characters following recent events cus I figured it'd be easier to work with chill people than to try and rationalise dumbass mistakes <3 have fun !
> 
> chapter dedicated to ghet <3 for helping me write the fucking speech, holy shit ilysm
> 
> beta'ed by [lolitwontgivemeanameiamsad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolitwontgivemeausernameiamsad)

District One doesn’t forget.

Ask anyone in Panem how many tributes from District One have won the Hunger Games and they’ll take a few moments thinking, before they reply: _three. SkyDoesEverything, CaptainSparklez, and now Technoblade._

Ask anyone in District One how many victors they have and they’ll reply with a hesitant _five._

There’s a reason Floor 0 remains a ghost story District One tells their children. _They are not real, they are not, **they are not**. Heed their stories, as even Greek myths hold some truth to them._

A cautionary tale to the whispering majority. _Do not — please, for all our sakes — don’t speak out._

A notorious history to the silent many. _There used to be two, and now there are none._

A legend to the loudest few. _Remember their names. One day they’ll remember yours, too._

There’s a reason Techno grew up hearing the names Jacksfilms and Pewdiepie, because even when the rest of Panem has forgotten, they still exist in between overheard words and hushed rumours. There’s a reason he has their names rattling around his head, ghosts constantly hanging above his own name, their figures so tall that the only things he can truly see are their shadows.

It’s simple: they are still legends. They are the _first_ to bring honour to their District. The Capitol is ashamed of them, yes, but District One isn’t, because they are the _first_. They are Victors, they are Careers, they are successful, they _won_. Most importantly, they are District One.

And District One doesn’t forget.

.

There is no Victory Tour.

There is only the whispered fear of another riot, unleashed chaos in the Districts. There is only bated anticipation, breaths held in terror, hands sweeping past holstered weapons in an attempt to pacify the crowds. There is only tension, and the knowledge that you cannot quell it, you can only hope to win once the dam breaks.

There is pity for the new, there is reverence for the old, and there’s one last chance to go back where he started.

There is only District One and its people, _his_ people. There is a stage, there are the _people_ , and they are looking up at him. There are eyes on him, and there are faces in a crowd he’s been taught all his life should be faceless, and there are names he puts to the faces he’s supposed to be overlooking.

There are his parents, and there are his friends, and there are his sisters. There is dismay, and there is pride, and there is gratefulness, and then his youngest sister is mouthing his name, _his real name_. There’s an apology, or a plea, or a kind, simple silence. There is a memory, maybe, that he can’t remember, or he’s not allowed to remember, and the undeniable call, the only one that reminds him that this is his home. _Don’t forget,_ they say, _you’ll always be one of us._

There is the crown on his head, seven vertices, seven gems for each tip, seven people that will never stop haunting him. There is the cloak wrapped around his body, a glaring barrier between him and the world. There are the Peacekeepers, there is his escort, there are the cameras, and there’s the heavy weight of the golden cue card pinched between his fingers. There is his future, maybe, the only one he’ll ever know. _Don’t forget,_ they say, _you’re one of us now._

(There is the pin, and there is the hope, and there is a person looking up at him. There is a tap of nimble fingers on his temple, there is a pride so detestable that he can’t feel his own resentment anymore, and it all twists until all that’s left is him, shaking with his head held high. There are the aftershocks of the ever-shifting earthquake, or the softest possibility, a humble ‘maybe’, the only one he’ll let himself consider. _Don’t forget. Don’t forget. Don’t forget._ )

With his heart clenching deep within his chest — a painful thump across his ribcage and in his jugular, twisting and churning and sickening — he raises his chin up, forces his shoulders back, and smiles until he can’t feel his cheeks. He speaks, and they listen, and one day he’ll wish they had cupped their ears.

“To our divine leader, President Charles, to your superiors within the Capitol, and to my loyal subjects — people of District One.”

The crowd falls silent. The only thing echoing in the air is the high timbre of his own voice.

“I come before you all here today as an aftermath, a result of your eternal support and generosity. To my President — I thank you for this opportunity to prove my utmost loyalty to you and to the Capitol. To the Capitol: the Gamemakers, the sponsors, the citizens — for your work, your generosity, your support. To my District subordinates — for the encouragement that has granted my online success, and for allowing me to receive such an outstandin Game score. To proudly declare to all of Panem: _long live your king_.”

He smiles for effect, letting his words sink into the audience. Maybe they can see his cue card, maybe they can’t; maybe they can tell these words are not his own, maybe to them, this is him, Technoblade, _the name the person the identity_ he always wanted to be known by — _isn’t this what he wanted?_

Looking around, it’s only by pure, sadistic chance that he locks eyes with the girl he volunteered for. Her eyes widen, and she looks down from his red gaze. Maybe it’s the smile, maybe it’s the chill in his expression; maybe she’s grateful, maybe she’s horrified, maybe he knows her, wait-

(No, no, no, _no — no it isn’t, no you don’t, not anymore-_ )

He opens his mouth to speak, and his next words are stuck somewhere in his throat. The card crumples every so slightly where it’s clenched in his trembling fingers. He realises far too late that he’s going to cry.

“And to stand here, now, to anticipate the birth of a new era. For- for the Games, for the Capitol, and for Panem.” He swallows, drops the card like a piece of flaming coal, and looks down. Hopes the cameras don’t catch the sudden clamming of his cheeks, the cold that descends onto his skin like a cruel, comforting blanket. _Finish the speech,_ he has to get off the stage, now. “And to all, so you shall remember:

“Technoblade never dies.”

(So maybe his voice cracks at the end, so maybe the crowd doesn’t catch his fleeting mistake, so maybe nobody will remember. Or the horrifying alternative, that it will forever be ingrained in the minds of the people he most wants to forget.)

He nods down at them, hanging on to the last dregs of confidence he has and to the uncertain strength that holds him up. They break into applause. Congratulations, thank you, long live, and maybe, _farewell._

.

District One loves him, and Techno hates it.

He doesn’t want any of it. He doesn’t want their smiles, he doesn’t want their applause, he doesn’t want to hear them cheer his name and hail his presence and place him atop the same pedestal they placed the others on.

He doesn’t want to step down from the stage and get immediately hounded by trainers and Careers yelling about his victory and his Game score and- and he doesn’t want to find his trainer looking down at him with the wrong kind of pride. _Look at him, he’s the Victor, he’s the prize, he’s the newest, biggest celebrity,_ and he doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t want their congratulations, he wants to ask _’what do I do now’_ and have them give him a step-by-step on how to live now that he doesn’t have somewhere to look to.

He doesn’t want to see his friends sidle up to see him, the three of them huddling together against his lone self. He doesn’t want to see them glance at the bright red spatters on his clothes and the gold freckles on his cheeks and look up to count _one, two, three, four, five, six, seven-_ , and he doesn’t want them to see him like this.

He doesn’t want to look at Squid — young, competitive, wide-eyed Squid — and see a strained smile in place of his laughter. He doesn’t want to see Wisp harden his kind eyes, shove his hands into his pockets and tell him, “Thank you for volunteering for my sister,” because oh, _oh,_ he didn’t even recognise her amidst his own delirious enthusiasm.

He doesn’t want to see Deo, so far removed from his usual intensity, biting his lip and shuffling his feet and tugging at his red hoodie. “I’ll be honest, we didn’t think you’d go that far,” Deo mutters softly, and Techno doesn’t want to hear any of it. “We’ll miss you, but…”

“But you don’t want to see me again?” Techno finishes. He doesn’t want to speak, but now his words are out there.

Instead of replying, Deo surges forward and falls into him, arms wrapping around his neck and torso. For a wild, wild second, Techno reaches for a weighted ghost of metal strapped to his back, _wrench away, fight, neutralise the threat._ But then Deo buries his head into Techno’s shirt and squeezes gently.

Oh.

_Oh._

He… ~~doesn’t want it~~ squeezes back.

“No, no- it’s, it’s just that I- we, we want to see _you_ ,” Deo whispers. He sniffs, pulls away hesitantly. “I’m sorry. Please don’t come back,” and then forcefully, “ _Technoblade_.”

When they scurry away together, Techno doesn’t want to see them leave. He doesn’t want them to stay, either.

.

Loneliness is…new.

He’s been alone before, of course — hell, he would prefer to be alone most of the time, given the choice. He’s not good with strangers, he’s not good at holding conversations, he’s not good with people, period. But that doesn’t mean he likes being lonely, though, quite the contrary.

Loneliness is painful, in its own cruel, cathartic way.

It is breaking away from the Careers and the trainers and the Peacekeepers and the crowd to spend his final hour in District One. It is watching his friends walk away and knowing he can’t follow them, not anymore, never again. It is walking down the streets towards his house, his single bright figure a spotlight of its own right. It is wasting his precious time but knowing that this tedious labour is something he desperately wants to remember.

Loneliness is empty, but it fills his heart so, so heavily.

It is walking up to the porch of his house and ignoring his neighbours as they peer at him through their windows, and hoping, hoping, hoping that someone would come and greet him at the entrance. It is the backup key missing from underneath the mat, the key missing from his pocket, the door that creaks open and exposes an empty house.

Loneliness is silent, muted screaming loud in his ears.

It is finding his family in a room, chatter filling the air around him, one he can’t hope to rejoin. It is his parents, turning to look at him with pained smiles, second-guessing their love for their son. It is his sisters, the eldest carefully regarding his taut stance, the second looking up at him in awe, the youngest too young to realise that underneath the red eyes and the pink hair and the grit of his teeth, this is still her brother.

(Right…? _Right…?_ )

It is him, still not breaking, still not cracking, still not quite himself but it's enough to meet his parents’ eyes. “Don’t, _don’t_ let them follow me,” he whispers, harshly, not quite knowing where that came from, just that he _needs_ to say it. “No matter what. Promise me. Don’t let them follow.”

It is his mother, standing a little too far away, and it is his father, stricken.

It is him, yelling out of nowhere, “ _Promise me!_ ”

It is a nod, an unspoken vow, and it is him yanking himself out of the room. It is desperate, maybe, him hoping that his family understands, in the heat of his voice, how his chest threatens to burst open with misplaced anger and subdued passion.

Loneliness is the cold tones of a quiet, empty room, haunted by the memory of one filled with golden sunlight, the laughter of best friends and sisters — the memory he wants to keep or lose on his own, selfless terms.

Loneliness is the last time he sees his family. It is distressing, it is difficult, it is tears shed on his clothes. It is genuine, it is gentle, it is his father _understanding_ , telling him, “We’ll miss you,” and knowing that there is no second guess.

Loneliness is bittersweet, Techno decides. It is going to plague him for years to come.

.

District One doesn’t forget.

Sometimes, he wishes they would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this just in: local gremlin man writes 10k words of minecraft youtuber fanfiction and gets arrested for tomfoolery, what crimes will he commit next
> 
> hehe we just about crossed the 10k line, yay! here's to hoping that I won't babyrage at writer's block and delete everything. i've deleted way too many fics for that exact reason, but thankfully I got everyone to continuously yell at me hehe
> 
> (if anyone recognises the style of that second part I want u to shut up :) hehe 1. im not creative and 2. I like it shut up)
> 
> lemme know what y'all think, stay safe and ily all as always <3


	5. only ever feeling it in retrospect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya like physics? I had to go digging through my notes for this one smh my head
> 
> chapter dedicated to ollie, ib, shel, ghet, cloud, havok, fizz and ghet again for putting up with my bullshit procrastination on the discord and telling me to fuck off and write this chapter ily <3 and also kat but SHUT-
> 
> beta'ed by [lolitwontgivemeanameiamsad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolitwontgivemeausernameiamsad)

_The half life of a radioisotope is the time required for one half of the amount of the unstable material to degrade into a more stable material._

_A source will have an intensity of 100% when new. At one half-life, its intensity will be cut to 50% of the original intensity. At two half-lives, it will have an intensity of 25%. After ten half-lives, less than one-thousandth of the original activity will remain. Although the half-life pattern is the same for every radioisotope, the length of a half-life is different. Cobalt-60 has a half-life of about 5 years while Iridium-192 has a half life of about 74 days._

**However, no matter how many times the intensity of the radioisotope is halved, no matter how small of a fraction it presents, no matter the fact that one day its effect will grow virtually invisible, it will never truly disappear.**

.

“You must be Technoblade,” Pyrocynical’s voice greets the moment the elevator doors open. Techno looks up…up…up, and he has to crane his neck to take in everything. 

Here he is, the great Pyrocynical, the famed fox, the Prince of Floor Five, and Techno did not expect him to be so tall. So big, so tall, so… _off_ …in the way he looks down with a carefully neutral expression. He’s never met the man in person, only seen his perfect smiles from a distance. Pyrocynical didn’t seem real back then, when he laughed, talked or moved with all the glitter on his neon figure, and he doesn’t seem real now, as he eyes Techno like a predator.

His reserved posture, straight legs, straight back and straight face. The lies brewing beneath the surface, silver hair, silver eyes and silver tongue. His hollow words, ingenuine in its crafted authenticity and proud in its defensiveness. 

“I am,” Techno says, nodding slowly, unsure of how to navigate around this new adversary.

After a beat, Pyro jerks a hand out for him to shake, and Techno takes it just as stiffly. His hand is warm, maybe a little too warm, but it makes sense given Pyrocynical’s legacy. He grips a little too tightly and shakes a little too long, just enough to make Techno wary.

“I’m Niall Comas, but everyone calls me Pyro,” he says. More a warning than an introduction. Everyone calls him Pyro, everyone addresses him by his proper title, don’t you dare step out of line. 

Don’t step out of line. Don’t challenge them. Don’t even look at them the wrong way. Pyro is eleven years his senior; he’s tall _too tall, too menacing, why is he looming over me, how do I take him down_ ; he’s bigger and stronger and he knows his way around the floor. _Get on his good side, get on their good sides, at least until you know how to survive-_

Pyro lets go of his hand. Still no emotion in his face. “What District are you from?”

“I just won the most successful Hunger Games,” Techno says, furrowing his eyebrows. “They were broadcasted everywhere.” He’s still standing inside the elevator and still has no idea how to hold himself. He moves out of the elevator and clasps his hands behind his back. 

_’At ease’_ , but that’s a fucking lie. Pyro eyes his every movement.

Eyes his hands. Eyes his stance. Eyes every twitch of his face. Eyes his feet and every little tremble of his legs. Eyes his face, _get your eyes off mine_ -

Pyro nods. “Welcome to your home away from home.”

In one quick motion, he crumples the golden cue card he’s been holding and shoves it deeply into his pocket. Pyro crosses his arms and squares his shoulders, cocking his head to better squint at Techno.

“Alright, hotshot, I remember you and your…Game score.” A muscle on his cheek twitches. “I just gotta read what they gave me, mate. Now, you got a name?”

“…It’s Technoblade.”

“No, yeah, we know your arena name, it’s fuckin’ everywhere. I meant your…” Pyro trails off. Looks him up and down again _sizing him up to see how many bites it takes to incapacitate the pig_. “Okay. Techno. I can call you Techno right? Alright- c’mon, let’s get you to your room.”

In a way, he understands why the Capitol loves their fox so much. He talks a lot, maybe too much, but he knows how to command an audience’s attention. When he speaks, they listen. When he claps, they cheer. When he beckons, they follow.

And when he starts walking down the hallway, Techno jogs to keep up. 

.

( _Maybe maybe maybe maybe, he’s not the predator, he’s not the threat, he’s not the dangerous one, maybe maybe maybe maybe, he’s the prey, he’s the victim, he’s the one in danger._ )

(Who is ‘he’ supposed to be again?)

.

Morning comes and the sun doesn’t cheer him up one bit, as there are no windows in his room and there is no sun to look at. Techno wakes from an uneasy slumber to the sound of muffled voices outside his door and claustrophobia creeping down his walls. 

He’s on his feet when the door creaks open, arms held in front of him to deflect any attacks. There are no weapons here, there are no weapons _anywhere_ , but he has his fists and his wits and there are knives in the kitchen he could use-

“Whoa, hey. Kid.” 

The door swings open fully to reveal his stylist, who has his hands out in a placating gesture. Still no smile on his worn face, still no light in his grey eyes. Baggy clothes, ruffled hair, eyes fixed on the floor and hands curled by his sides. It’s sad, almost, to read his stylist for the umpteenth time and still come up blank. 

(It’s terrifying, almost, to know that he can’t read everyone.)

“You alright?” his stylist asks, eyeing Techno, who has his back touching the wall and adrenaline coursing through his veins. The first sign of emotion flickers past the stony wall is a twitch of his eyebrow that disappears as soon as it reared itself. 

Three Peacekeepers march into his room, carrying bags and boxes, and flicking the lights on as they walk past. Techno winces at the harsh glare, half annoyed, half angered.

“What time is it?” he asks, eyeing their holstered weapons. Batons. Stun-guns. He can work with those if needed.

His stylist shrugs up a sleeve and glances at a wristwatch. “It’s like…four AM. Sorry. Usually we wake people up by six, but they…uh, they wanted more time and more work for you. Alright?”

Techno doesn’t answer, and instead forces himself to relax, tamp down the furious thumping of his heart against his ribcage. He’s out of the Game, there’s no need to be so cautious, he doesn’t have to worry, _they won’t hurt him_ , so why doesn’t it go away? They’re all on edge. Him, for being woken up so rudely. His stylist, from the army of Peacekeepers by the door. The Peacekeepers, from almost being strangled by an unhinged maniac.

Him. It’s him, he’s the unhinged maniac, he almost strangled them, and one day he won’t calm down in time and he’ll do something stupid and he’ll get himself in real trouble. One day he’ll act out with all the best intentions, say something or do something he won’t mean, and one day he won’t be able to take it back, and one day, one day, _one day_ -

“Go freshen up. Calm down a little maybe?” His stylist is looking at him weirdly. “I’ll be in the dressing room.” He jerks his head toward the dressing room and leads the Peacekeepers in.

Techno watches them and collapses onto his bed, eyes fixed onto his ceiling. His repulsive, perfect, white ceiling. His jarring lights. His bland walls. A blank expanse beside his bed blatantly mocking the lack of windows and natural light in his room. The life of a Victor. 

.

It's a whirlwind, almost. The moment he steps out of the bathroom he's seated in the middle of his dressing room, no Peacekeeper in sight, the empty room now full of clothes and colour and makeup and scents and a spry stylist rummaging through clothes and sorting through makeup and circling through the room and stopping in front of Techno to crouch down and say:

"My name's Phil.”

And his grey eyes are burning, storm clouds and glinting blades and shrapnel, the resonant clang of a hammer hitting red steel. The moment of urgent decision, maybe, the spin of a coin against a silver table, a hand slamming down on it in heated anticipation, demanding a question of _what next?_

This, he can know.

For one teetering moment, he holds his breath, he asks the question, he stands at a crossroads, four prongs and four possibilities. The one promise nobody can keep, the one prayer nobody can answer, the call everyone wishes they can have: _Tell me where to go and I'll follow._ There is no one to guide him, there is no one to hold his hand, there is no one to point to the raw spot bare on the floor, and yet he sees.

This, he can respect.

And yet he realises. If District One has taught him anything, if there's anything he _knows_ in this new, uncertain world, it's that there is value in words. There are layers behind voices, and pockets beneath those layers, and secrets concealed even then. There is _meaning_ , and it’s the one thing he can't scrape off himself.

This, he can understand.

Techno bows his head.

( _Please_ , one day he'll scream. _This above all._ )

"Thank you," he says, and he's back, he's crouching, pressing three fingers to his lips, holding it out to the trembling fingers as they tap against his temple. _Thank you, thank you, goodbye_ , and now he's holding it out to his stylist, _respect, thank you, thank you_. 

(To Phil, no goodbyes; they've only just begun.)

Phil looks at his outstretched hand, his three fingers a quiet offer. He studies Techno's expression, drills into his eyes, searches all the hard lines on his face. Slowly, he takes hold of Techno's hand and lowers it. "I'm sorry," he mutters. “I am so sorry. I...I know how you must feel.”

Techno shakes his head. He's back, and he's looking up at a pedestal and he's so, so young. "Does it- will it ever go away?”

Phil lets go of his hand and stands up, turning to his makeup station. "No, it... it won't. No, you- you're not going to forget, not really.”

"...Does it get easier?”

The answer is immediate, ”No." Then, a beat where he freezes and sighs. "Yes. It gets easier.”

Phil turns his head, and the stone wall is gone. All that's left is an indisputably pained grimace and a clawed hand over his heart, bunching up his shirt in a fist.

"It...it won't go away, but you're either going to live with it forever, or you're going to- you're going to fight it. It's going to be ugly but... one day, you'll be in a better place. You're going to look back at where you once were, and you're going to realise: it doesn't define you, you are above it, and you're- and you are better off anyways.”

"And are you?" Techno asks, clenching his fists to keep them from shaking. He's shaking, he's always shaking these days, he can't stop trembling from all the buzzing beneath his skin. "In that better place?”

"No, but I will be." And it sounds like a promise, like a declaration, like an oath he can't afford to break. "And you'll find yours too one day, I hope. You just, you gotta realise and you gotta change, and- and then, then you'll get it.”

"I...don't want to.”

The sun is rising, but there are no windows in his room. There are windows out there, and yet he's confining himself to this box. He's going to shrivel up in here, he's going to be on edge forever, he's going to be haunted by the ghost of nimble fingers, he's going to stay and he's going to _crack_ under the weight of his own misled path.

"It's your choice." Phil shrugs. "It's your call. No one can make that decision but you. Turn around.”

“What?"

"Turn around." He points at Techno and draws a quick circle in the air, and Techno obeys his orders. "It's bad luck for Victors to steal glances into the mirror before their stylist is done. Are you ready?”

"No," Techno mutters. "But I have to, whether I like it or not?”

"Yeah, I…yeah. None of us will ever be ready, but we have to. It doesn't matter if we- whether we like it or not," Phil affirms, and he's not talking about the Gala, is he? No. He never speaks in gilded silver, but all the words he says have meaning behind them, some that even Techno can't decipher right now.

(Maybe one day he'll look back from that better place and he'll understand.)

(One day he'll be at the end of his own winded path and he'll agree.)

"That's the reality we have to face; that's the reality we have to live with now."

.

(”What lasts? _What lasts?_ People die, memories fade, mountains turn to dust. Time keeps moving, the world keeps turning, and even then, it’ll stop someday. There’s nothing we can do, so I ask you, now: _what lasts?_ ”)

("") 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmm its html shenanigans hours on the last line, I have no idea if it works or if it breaks completely for everyone else, I just wanted to be Cool and Unique there. lmk if u caught it <3
> 
> gift time ! it's gift time I updated the list, its completely out of nowhere but I cant believe I put it off for so long. I would give this to anon too but like, how >:( 
> 
> thank u to ghet for launching me to write this story in the first place and putting up with my bullshit down in the dms ily <33
> 
> and thank u to bb for being so fucking nice , im going to cry , ur make me so happy with ur works and ur words and ur kindness and ur support and god damn it I will return the favour,,,, <33
> 
> oh and havok too i guess, bleh, I miss my tommy fancam partner
> 
> anyways thats it sorry boys, comments n kudos are appreciated and ill assimilate them into my gremlin brain thank u all and cyall in about a week when I crawl back out of the void

**Author's Note:**

> in case anyone's confused, here's a reader's guide to the AU, made by yours truly ;)
> 
> [A Reader's Guide to the Victors' Tower](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Pzhx1R51raoy7FdRsU2t7jz7zWJT7xSye1CdFJXrbKE/edit?usp=sharing)
> 
> edit 24/07/20: capping the story at 5 chapters ! I'm still writing techno, don't worry, but capping this story now gives me a whole lotta freedom to mess around with more ideas and oneshots and different styles and stuff. I'll put everything into the series, in fact, in case you missed it: I posted a direct continuation of chapter 5 a while back! I'll start a new story back on the main timeline but in the meantime, I'm fucking around with other stuff — check out my other works! anyway, have fun and thanks for reading!


End file.
